The air was ripe with young spring. She closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the April sky, smiling as the sun kissed her face. No doubt her fair skin was freckling even more with each passing second, but it hardly mattered now. For the first time in her twenty-four years, Lottie was free.

And all it took was complete and utter ruination.

“Signora, tu hai un visitatore,” Marta, the housekeeper, said as she bustled onto the terrace. The older woman didn’t know very much English, and though Lottie had engaged a tutor to help her brush up on Italian before leaving England, nothing could prepare her for the rapid cadence of natural speakers. Luckily, even Lottie could pick out visitatore.

Strange. Visitors never called at lunchtime, and Marta usually guarded the front door as fiercely as a hound of Hades. “What, now?”

Marta raised her eyebrow. “Un uomo bello nobile.”

She shot the woman an exasperated look. “Really, Marta.” As Lottie had explained many, many times already, she was not lonely and certainly hadn’t any need for affetto. Marta had probably arranged the visit herself, and this “handsome nobleman” was actually the son of her butcher. The housekeeper gave a dismissive little shrug and then, oddly, seemed to hesitate. Lottie only understood half of what she said at any given time, but Marta never dithered over anything.

She looked over her shoulder and then gestured for Lottie to come closer. “Lui dice che è tuo…marito.” She whispered the last word, as if relaying some terrible secret.

Marito?

Lottie frowned. It was reminiscent of mari, the French word for “husband,” but that didn’t make any sense. She most certainly didn’t have a husband. Lottie didn’t have anyone. She glanced at the Italian dictionary on the terrace’s lone table. Hopefully the man’s English was better than Marta’s, or else this would be a very short visit.

“All right. You may show him out here, I suppose,” Lottie said with a sweep of her hand.

Marta broke into a rare smile and nodded. “Ah, bene, bene. Una riconciliazione!” She clasped her hands against her chest, as if this was the most wonderful news. Then her eyes sparked with that all-too-familiar determination. “I bring you tea,” she declared and hurried back into the house.

“No, Marta!” Lottie called after her. This wasn’t a social call, for heaven’s sake. But it was useless. She might be the mistress, but Marta ran the house. Lottie crossed her arms and leaned against the balustrade to wait for this “handsome nobleman” to appear. The thought was mildly intriguing, given that she had barely spoken to a man under fifty since the Pension Bertolini in Florence. He had been a remarkably bland German named Hans who was traveling with his father. Hans was polite, spoke excellent English, and didn’t remotely interest her. But her chaperone, Mrs. Wetherby, was undeterred: “Imagine! You could have blond children!”

The odious woman had viewed Lottie’s light auburn tresses as an affront to common decency. A foul blemish that needed to be snuffed out before it could taint another generation. But Lottie cherished her hair. It was just like her mother’s had been. She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and absently fingered the end. Her uncle’s pompous secretary, Gordon Wetherby, had maintained that his aunt excelled in managing young ladies with “high spirits.” Lottie could still picture the way his nose wrinkled as he said the words. Lottie wasn’t proud of it, but she had taken some pleasure in imagining both his and Mrs. Wetherby’s reactions to her disappearance. Though perhaps she should be thanking him instead. After all, if Mrs. Wetherby had been the least bit pleasant, Lottie might have been tempted to amend her plan.